


Fear is What We Learn

by silentid



Series: Psychotic Trio [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Incest, Manipulation, Multi, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:23:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentid/pseuds/silentid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of Fiddleford's outburst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear is What We Learn

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a quote by Marianne Williamson, "Love is what we are born with. Fear is what we learn."  
> I hope it turned out all right, I wrote it because of some of the lovely comments and suggestions on the original piece. But I set it aside for quite some time, worried that it hadn't really turned out. At the insistence of my writing partner and a reader request I brushed it off, edited it and now I hope you all enjoy.

Fiddleford was exhausted when Stan carried him back to his cage. His body ached all over and he felt like he’d been run over by an emotional bulldozer. He couldn’t wait to get to sleep.

Which made Stan setting him down right next to his cot and not letting him collapse directly into it a bit of a surprise.

“Stan?” He asked turning to face the other man.

“I know you’re exhausted and I’m sure you just wanna get to bed, but there’s the matter of your punishment for tryin’ to escape," Stan said the words appearing to weigh heavily on him.

Fiddleford shook slightly as Stan spoke, here it was. He had been waiting for this, the brothers had been way too nice since his return and now it was all going to change. 

"We won’t do anything tonight. I don't think anyone is in a good enough frame of mind for that. But I do need to do somethin' so you don't forget about it." Stan pulled Fiddleford into a slight hug as he said this. Fiddleford couldn't help himself and flinched slightly at the contact. 

Stan held him steady. "Hey easy there, Bean-Pole. I’m not gonna hurt you."

"B-but I deserve it," Fiddleford stuttered out, his eyes downcast and body tense. 

"You deserve to be punished," Stan said while tugging Fiddleford's chin so the smaller man looked at him. "But that doesn't mean I'm gonna just hurt you. If I have to hurt you you're gonna know exactly why I'm doing it, okay?"

Fiddleford nodded, oddly reassured by Stan's statement. 

"So what's the reminder," he asked trying to sound brave. Stan smiled at him.

"I need you to give me your blanket, Fidds," Stan said. He rubbed one hand gently against Fiddleford’s bare arm. 

Stan's request shook Fiddleford, he had been looking forward to curling up with his blanket now that this was all over and going to sleep. He didn't want to give it up. He rocked slightly on his feet, before giving a barely perceptible shake of his head. 

"No," he whispered. 

Stan's grip on his arm tightened. A frown pulled at his lips. 

"Did you just say no?" He said, tone darkening.  
"Please, Stan. Not that." Fiddleford whimpered, fear flaring briefly in his chest. He didn't want to upset Stan, he really didn't. But he needed his blanket tonight. 

Stan's frown dropped, disappointment now laced his voice. "I know its hard Fidds, but that's why it’s a punishment, right? It’s gotta be something you don't like. To help you remember to be good. You want to be good for me and Ford dontcha, Fidds?"

Fiddleford cringed at Stan's disappointment, nodding in aggressive agreement to Stan's questions. 

"Alright then, show me you can be good. Gimme the blanket."

Fiddleford reached for the blanket on his cot with trembling hands. He briefly clasped it to his chest, before offering it shakily to Stan.

"Good job, Fidds." Stan praised pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You know I don't want to do this, right? It’s for your own good."

Fiddleford nodded dejectedly and sat on the cot while Stan let himself out of the cage. 

"When will I get it back?"

Stan glanced over his shoulder while he folded the blanket and set it on Ford's desk. 

"You can have it back as soon as you've been punished," he replied, coming back over to the cage. "I’m really sorry about this, but it’s just a reminder."

Stan reached through the bars and patted Fiddleford on the head as he nodded again. 

"Night, buddy."

"Goodnight, Stan."

As Stan left Fiddleford curled up on the cot. He shivered in the cool air and he was certain he wouldn't be able to get any sleep that night. But his exhaustion soon over took him and he slept soundly all night. 

+++

The next couple of days passed as if nothing had happened. The brothers treated him no differently and not a word was brought up about his punishment. It left Fiddleford feeling very confused. If it weren't for the bandage around Ford's head and the body in the basement freezer, Fiddleford might have thought it all a dream. A very strange, messed up dream. 

There was also the matter of his blanket. Neither brother mentioned it but it continued to sit on Ford's desk. Visible to him every night he was in the cage but inaccessible. He kept waiting for the brothers to make some comment about his punishment or the blanket. The longer they refused to address the issue, the antsier he got. 

Finally in the afternoon of the third day he couldn't bare it any longer. He had to say something. He didn't want his punishment hanging over his head any longer. And he really wanted his blanket back. 

Ford was working at his desk filling in a new entry in his journal. Fiddleford sat on the ground nearby tinkering with some spare parts the twins had given him.

"Hey, Ford, can I, uhm, ask you something?" Fiddleford asked not looking up from his work. 

"Uh-huh," was the only response he got.

Fiddleford leaned back against a cabinet, pausing in his work. The brothers had promised to look for some more chairs for the lab now that Fiddleford was going to be around more. But he honestly didn't mind sitting where there was room. From where he sat he could see his blanket perched on the desk's edge.

"Well, I was wondering, when you, uhm, maybe thought," Fiddleford stammered. He kept his gaze locked on his blanket, which was the only thing keeping him talking right now. "When am I going to be punished?"

He finally got the question out in one rushed sentence. Ford stopped writing and glanced down at Fiddleford. 

"Are you asking to be punished?" He asked, gaze serious.

"Uhm I guess," Fiddleford replied, nervous and perplexed by where this was going. 

Ford grinned at his answer. "Good, I'm glad you still think you deserve this," Ford said ruffling Fiddleford's hair. "You know Stan and I will give you anything you ask. Come along, let’s take this upstairs. Stan should be home by now."

Ford stood from his seat and scooped Fiddleford's blanket up before heading down the hallway towards the elevator. Fiddleford trailed after him feeling rather lost. 

He was very unsure where this was going. They had been waiting for him to ask to be punished the whole time? That actually made some amount of sense, but why were they now going upstairs?

He paused at the doors to the elevator, conflicted over where things were going. Ford glanced up from hitting the button.

"Come on, come on, we don't have all day."

"Bu-but why are we going upstairs? I didn't think I got to go upstairs."

"What do you mean you don't get to go upstairs? You live here don't you?" Ford seemed genuinely perplexed by his question. "We didn't trust you before but now that you belong here you can go pretty much anywhere you want. With supervision, of course."

"I can?" Fiddleford said feeling at a complete loss for the turn this situation had taken. He was a drift and it was all he could do to simply let Ford sweep him along in his wake. 

"Of course you can, we've only been locking you up downstairs the last few days to help you feel more comfortable. After something as big as your first kill sometimes it helps to have everything else be as normal as possible," Ford said as the elevator slowly crept upward. Fiddleford personally disagreed with his reasoning. The whole situation had been extra disorienting because nothing changed, but he wasn't going to argue the point out loud. 

"We've just been waiting for you to ask. You keep forgetting that, all you need to do is ask." Ford continued. "As for taking your punishment upstairs, that's so you don't associate too many unpleasant memories with the lab. It would be a shame if you couldn't work in an area just because you developed a phobia of it and being beat there."

Fiddleford shivered at Ford's casual statements. He was reminded of the purpose of their trip and his nervous thoughts turned towards what his punishment might be. 

They got out of the elevator and made their way up the stairs. Fiddleford still trailed slightly behind Ford. The sound of the radio drifted from the kitchen and they followed it to find Stan. 

Stan was tossing various ingredients that were just starting to go bad from the fridge into a pot. They really needed to get to the grocery store but for now this would make a decent dinner. He turned around and was surprised to see his brother waiting in the doorway. Ford was normally downstairs as long as he could get away with. He either showed up just as food was being set on the table or Stan came down to drag him upstairs. He was more surprised to see Fiddleford hovering just behind his brother. The taller man’s head swiveled taking in the new surroundings.

"Ford, Fidds, what do I owe for this surprise?" He asked, stopping his work to lean casually against the counter. 

"Fidds just asked for his punishment," Ford said a small grin on his lips. He gestured with the blanket to bring it to his brother's attention. 

"Oh good, do you want to deal with it before or after dinner?"

There was a slight pause. Fiddleford startled when he noticed the brothers were both looking at him. He quickly realized the question had been for him. 

"Uhm, ca-can we just get it over with?" Fiddleford said, feeling his anxiety building. He didn't want to prolong this any longer than he had to.

They both smiled, and Fiddleford felt some of his tension drop. At least he had given the right answer. 

"Sure thing, just let me get this in the oven and we'll head over to the study." Stan said as he quickly tossed the last few ingredients into the pot and pushed the whole thing into the oven. It would take a while to bake and everyone would be very ready for dinner when this was all over. 

The three of them continued their walk through the house. Ford still led, but now Stan brought up the rear. Fiddleford was beginning to feel a bit like he was being marched to his execution. 

They made their way into a well-lit room, that's thick carpet muffled their footsteps. The main furniture in the room was an imposing desk with a leather chair behind it. Ford slipped easily into the seat, adopting a relaxed air. Stan stood casually at his side. This left Fiddleford alone in front of the desk. He felt like a school boy called before the headmaster. 

"Can you tell me why we're here?" Ford asked his voice sounding especially authoritative in their present setting. 

Fiddleford glanced back and forth between the twins, before mumbling an answer to his feet. 

"Speak up."

"Because I attacked you and Stan and tried to escape," Fiddleford said, in a clearer voice though he still kept his gaze locked on his toes. He was amazed how little it took to make him feel like a vulnerable child again. 

"Anything else to add?"  
Fiddleford glanced up at the brothers but got no sign from either of them for what he was supposed to say. He wracked his brain trying to think. While he did this his eyes wandered to the bandage still wrapped around Ford's head. Guilt welled in him once again for having caused the other man harm. The feelings gave him an idea.

"I, uh, attacked you and Stan and I tried to escape and I deserve to be punished for that. That's why we're here," Fiddleford said his voice coming out steadier than he felt. He kept his eyes on the brothers this time hoping to see their reaction. 

Ford simply nodded once, but Stan's impassive mask was cracked by a small smile. 

"That's right, and what do you think a good punishment would be?" 

Fiddleford froze again, surely he wasn't going to have to pick something. What could he possibly come up with that would satisfy them?

"Wha-whatever you think is best." Fiddleford was sure he was walking on thin ice with that one. But he couldn't imagine the twins didn't already have a plan for what to do with him.

Ford nodded again before standing and circling the desk to open a cabinet somewhere behind Fiddleford. As he walked he made eye contact with his brother communicating some silent message. Fiddleford shivered slightly as Ford moved past him. 

"It’s really good to hear you've accepted that you deserve this punishment Fidds," Stan said picking right up where Ford had left off. He slowly began clearing the desk of loose papers and pens. "You know Ford and I don't want to hurt you, right? We both hate that you did somethin’ we have to do this for. But if you've accepted it, it'll make it easier to move past this. We only have to do this so you learn."

As Stan finished talking he circled the desk coming to a stop in front of Fiddleford. Fiddleford swayed slightly towards him, seeking his comforting presences as he nodded along with Stan's words. His guilt swelled at the part about forcing the brothers' hands in this. He hadn't wanted to put them in a position that made them uncomfortable. He really did deserve this. And it was for the best, he resolved himself to learn from the experience and try to be better for the brothers in the future. 

A light tap on his knee broke his train of thought and brought his attention back to the punishment at hand. Ford had reappeared with a thin rod in his hand. He was swishing it through the air lightly listening to the sound it made. 

“Do you know what this is?” Ford asked.

Fiddleford nodded nervously. His grandfather had been a fan of the rattan cane for discipline. He had thought that children were getting off lightly in school when most institutions switched over to the paddle. 

"Good, then you know what it can do," Ford said as he let the tip trail down Fiddleford's side. 

"Now strip and bend over the desk."

Fiddleford shivered but did as he was told. Even though he only had to take off his boxers he felt even more exposed than usual. Being bent over the table only made the feelings worse.

Before Fiddleford's nervousness could cause his whole body to shake he felt a soothing hand run through his hair, and pet gently down his back. He expected to see Stan standing next to him but was surprised when he felt six fingers. Stan had taken the chair and was watching the two of them with interest. 

"As I’m sure you're aware a traditional caning is usually twenty-four cuts," Ford said, his hand continuing to rub soothing circles of Fiddleford’s back. Fiddleford couldn't help but let out a small squeak when Ford said twenty-four. That was way too many, he would end up bloody and bruised if they went with that many. "But since this was your first offence, I was thinking we would cut that in half and go with twelve.

Fiddleford visibly relaxed at that. It was still way more than he had ever taken, his grandfather had generally found a couple of hits with a cane was enough to turn around the most determined child's behavior. But it sounded a lot better than the full twenty four. It also seemed like a fair number for the hurt he had caused, his guilt already easing as they discussed the specifics. 

He nodded to let Ford know he understood and accepted his choice. Fiddleford readjusted his grip on the table and took a few steadying breaths. Then he waited for Ford to get started. 

"I want you to count for me," Ford said, the cane once again swishing ominously through the air. "And for you to tell me one thing you’re sorry for after each one. Remember this is only for attacking us."

Fiddleford nodded again, his face pressed uncomfortably against the desk. The anticipation was starting to kill him and he really wanted Ford to get this over with. 

Without warning the swishing noise suddenly changed to an approaching whistle that was followed by a loud crack. Fiddleford was so focused on the sound that he didn't immediately register that it had been the cane connecting with his skin. But then the pain flared, searing from the point of contact through his body. He couldn't help himself, a loud yelp fell from his mouth before he clenched his teeth to stifle the cry.

"One," he said through his gritted teeth. He was proud that his voice only wavered a little. "I'm sorry for hitting Stan."

He made eye contact with Stan when he said this hoping to convey how truly sorry he was for what he had done. He knew it wouldn't lighten his sentence but he needed the brothers to know how sincere he was. If they forgave him everything could actually go back to normal.

Another swish and crack, the cane striking on the other cheek this time. Fiddleford was able to keep from making a sound now that it wasn't a surprise. Though the pain that flared from the second hit was no less painful.

"Two, I'm sorry for hitting Ford."

The third and fourth hits came in quick succession, alternating which side of his ass they struck. 

"Three, I'm sorry for stealing the coat and boots."

"Four, I'm sorry for trying to help your specimen escape."

There was a slight pause as Fiddleford regained his breathing. His eyes were squeezed tight from the last strike, and he felt tears swimming behind his lids. He was all but shouting the numbers and apologies, that was the only way he could keep from crying out. He hated himself for that last apology because he still felt Steven, the man he had failed, the man he had killed, deserved his name. But referring to him as Ford's specimen was the only way he could talk about the man without breaking down. Stan and Ford had also insisted he use the moniker after it became evident he couldn't use Steven's name.

Stan, who had remained silent so far simply observing the proceedings, leaned forward and ran his hands through Fiddleford's hair. 

"You're doing so well, Fidds." Stan praised, his hand continuing its reassuring pets. Slowly Fiddleford opened his eyes and met Stan's gaze. "We're both very proud of how well your taking this, aren't we Ford?"

"HmmMmm," Ford hummed, his own hand coming down to rub soothing circles on Fiddleford's lower back again. 

Fiddleford focused on the hands on his body, letting their touches block out the stinging pain coming from his butt. He felt his resolve stiffen at Stan's praise and the twins’ touches.

"We c-can keep going now," he said his voice wavering only a little. 

Stan grinned, and while Fiddleford couldn't see Ford the hand on his back gave what felt like an approving pat. Stan leaned down and gave Fiddleford's forehead a light peck.

"You can yell if you want to," Stan said as he settled back in the chair. "Remember this is punishment Fidds, you’re not supposed to enjoy it. Whatever you need to do to get through it, baby, you can do."

Fiddleford nodded gratefully. He hadn't been sure he could make it through the next few quietly or without crying. Even though none of Ford's strikes overlapped, the second two on each cheek had only been fractionally lower than the first two. And the second hits had caused the first two to sting and hurt like they were fresh. 

Ford wasted no time, and was quickly bringing the cane down for a fifth time. He let the rattan connect with Fiddleford's ass and held it there. The cane imparted its full energy this time, rattling the thin man and causing him to cry out.

"Fi-five, I'm sorry for trying to get away."

"Six," Fiddleford hissed, crying out after this one as well. "I'm sorry for disappointing you."

As the seventh stroke made contact, the tears Fiddleford had tried to hold back started to fall. Each strike caused its own searing pain, and made the previous ones flare a new. He had no idea how he was going to make it through another five strokes.

"Se-ven, I'm s-sorry." 

He couldn't come up with a specific apology and didn't particularly care. He felt as emotionally raw as his tender flesh. 

There was a pause, Fiddleford paid it little mind as he continued to sniffle. Both brothers looked at him with steady gazes. They made eye contact again communicating without words. Finally Stan gave a slow nod, before the telltale swish began again.

"I'm sorry, eight, I’m sorry," Fiddleford gasped out. The next stroke came immediately after barely giving him a chance to breathe. "Ni-nine, I'm so sorry. Please, I'm sorry."

The tenth stroke followed quickly after, but Fiddleford didn't let up his litany of apologies. 

"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry."

The brothers waited but Fiddleford never said the required number. 

"Ten," Stan finally called out from his seat.

Fiddleford glanced at him only managing a pathetic sorry between sniffling sobs. He clung limply to the desk, desperately wishing it would all be over. A sick feeling twisted his gut, how would the brothers ever forgive him if he couldn't even make it through a punishment that he deserved?

Stan came over to Fiddleford's side. He rubbed soothing circles on the smaller man’s back while he inspected the marks Ford had left. 

"Not bad," 

Five very red parallel marks lined both of Fiddleford's ass cheeks. They got steadily darker as they progressed downwards and a couple of the last ones had just barely broken the skin.

"I didn't get them tight enough to fit all six," Ford said with a shrug and a pout. He had moved to Fiddleford's head, effectively switching places with Stan, and was running the hand not holding the cane through Fiddleford's hair. 

Fiddleford completely ignored the two men's conversation. He let out the occasional sniffle and sob but he was completely lost in his head. Their comforting touches confused him. He had failed in taking his punishment. He didn't deserve their care. Why would they give it to him anyways?

"You did fine, Sixer. It’s not like this is an easy skill to learn and you've obviously been practicing," Stan said as his hand ran lightly over Fiddleford's heated skin. He kneaded the flesh lightly, gaining him a short whimper and Fiddleford's undivided attention. "Hey there buddy, you're doing real well. I've gotta choice for how we’re gonna move forward."

Fiddleford gave a stuttering nod. His neck was craned at an unnatural angle but he didn't dare move it and lose eye contact with Stan. 

"Alright, two choices for you. Since you lost count we can either add an extra three or I can do what's called closin’ the gate. It'll be pretty painful but it'll keep you at the original twelve," Stan said as he reached for the cane still in Ford's hand. 

Fiddleford hardly had to think about it. He doubted he could make it through the last two let alone another three. He honestly couldn't imagine how two more could be all that painful, considering what he had already felt. 

"Th-the second one, please."

"So polite," Stan said with a grin. "Alright closin’ the gate it is."

Ford stayed at Fiddleford's head, hand continuing to rub at his head. Stan swished the cane once or twice through the air to get a feel for it. With Fords attentions on him Fiddleford didn't get tense despite the ominous sounds behind him. 

"Here we go," Stan said as he brought the cane down with a mighty thwack. It connected with Fiddleford's right cheek, diagonally crossing the five lines already there.

Fiddleford howled from the pain. Each of the earlier stokes flared with a searing pain, as if they had been struck anew.

"Eleven," he choked out. There was no one he could make it through the last stroke. Not now, not when he knew what to expect. 

He dreaded the coming pain, going as far as flinching as he heard Stan swishing the cane. Fords hands came down on his shoulders at his motion. They didn't restrain him but they did provide him with a reminder. He stilled under them and the brothers’ watchful eyes. 

Stan took mercy on him and once Fiddleford was settled he didn't draw the punishment out. The final strike came down with the same force as the last on and cut the same pattern onto the other cheek. 

"Twel-ve," Fiddleford cried the sound dissolving into pained sobs. 

"You did real well, sweetheart," Stan said his large hand rubbing circles on Fiddleford's lower back. "I broke the skin a bit with those last two. Got some blood on the cane, gotta clean that up, but while I take care of that, Ford's gonna take care of you."

Ford gave Stan a searching look as he headed to the cabinet the cane was generally kept in. But Stan gave him little indication of his thoughts. With a shrug Ford tugged Fiddleford up off the desk. The taller man could barely stay on his feet and practically collapsed into Ford's arms. Ford wrapped him in a sort of embrace to keep him supported.

"You did much better than I expected. Seems my initial pain rating for you was wrong. All you needed was the right motivation. I'll need to make some notes for future experiments," Ford said as he maneuvered the two of them around awkwardly. "Can you stand on your own?" 

Fiddleford nodded wearily. He didn't particularly enjoy a conversation with Ford that involved pain and experiments. It hadn't worked out well in the past for him, but he found the normalcy of it comforting. 

"Here's a glass of water," Ford said passing Fiddleford the glass. 

Fiddleford sipped on the water, it felt heavenly on his raw throat. Meanwhile Ford spread a towel on the cleared desk.

"Hop up on the desk, lie on your stomach and I'll take care of the bleeding."

Fiddleford did as Ford asked, grimacing at the pain from his backside that each motion caused. Once he was situated he lay prone on the desk, his legs dangling awkwardly off.

Stan returned to their side of the room, tsking lightly at the awkward positioning. He grabbed a nearby cabinet and shuffled it closer so the taller man had something to lay his feet on. He then went around to Fiddleford's head and knelt down so they were at eye level. 

"You look so good right now," Stan said, wiping a thumb across the salty tear tracks on Fiddleford's face. 

"R-really?"

"Uh-huh, you took that caning like a champ. We're both very proud of you."

Stan pulled Fiddleford into a gentle kiss, just as Ford began rubbing antiseptic across the welts. Fiddleford let out a muffled noise, somewhere between a groan and a moan at the dual sensations. 

As quickly as it began it was over and Ford was patting him reassuringly on the back. He had been surprised how gentle the scientist had been with his care. His expectations had been for a much more clinical touch from Ford. But he was quickly coming to realize that while Ford thought very differently than his brother he had the same capacity for caring as Stan. Or at least he seemed to.

With his wounds cared for Fiddleford started shifting to get up, but was stilled by Fords hand on his back. 

"Not yet, that was just the first part of your punishment."

"B-but," Fiddleford stuttered with wide eyes.

"Fidds, that last bit was just for attacking us and helping the new meat get away," Stan said once again standing. He reaced into a drawer and pulled out a coil of rope. He measured a length of it as he continued. "This is for escaping. We can wait though if you want."

"N-no let’s just get this over with. What are you gonna do?"

"Have you ever heard of bastinado?" Ford asked.

Fiddleford shook his head, as Stan moved down towards his feet. He tried to shift to see what was going on but Ford’s hand kept him firmly in place. 

"It’s a caning that is done to the bottom of the feet. A variety of cultures and regimes have used it as a form of punishment over the years,” Ford said, falling easily into a lecturing tone. Meanwhile Stan secured Fiddleford's knees with the rope. Attaching the ends to the cabinet handles. "It’s done to the arches of the feet, which makes it quite painful but very difficult to cause permanent damage. However, some severe damage can be done if the cane strikes the smaller bones or highly sensitive areas. The ropes are to help prevent unnecessary movement and lower the chances of fracturing your toes."

"What Poindexter is tryin to say is this is for your own good. So don't fight me," Stan said as he applied a couple of loops of rope to Fiddleford's shoulders. They ran easily under the desk a couple of times. "These won’t really hold you down, there more supposed to remind you not to move."

"O-kay," Fiddleford whispered. He was nervous after Ford's description and he wanted them to move along. At this rate his imagination was coming up with worse outcomes then reality could supply. "How did you learn this Stan?"

"Oh you pick up all kinds of interesting skills when you're trying to make a living in less than legal ways," Stan said as he checked the ropes to make sure they were secure. "It was much easier to make the kind of money we needed for Sixer's schooling on the street then flipping burgers."

"I still wish you hadn't had to," Ford grumbled. He was tracing random patterns on Fiddleford's back and the restrained man could barely hold back a shiver as he wondered if Ford was imagining a knife making those shapes.

But I did," Stan grunted, "and we've had this discussion a thousand times. It was good money, and a good way of finding you toys at the time. Plus I learned a lot about covering our tracks and staying ahead of cops. So it was really a win-win."

"Alright, I was gonna suggest twelve again. But you did so well with the first one and I can tell you’re really sorry so we'll go with six," Stan said, easily switching topics. He let the cleaned cane swish a couple of times to get his arm warmed up. "This is just to make things all official like. And once it’s done, Fidds, you're forgiven. Ford and I won't hold what you did over you, and you can’t beat yourself up about it either, okay?"

Fiddleford squirmed on the desk, under Fords hands. He knew he still deserved this, but he was scared of how it would hurt. And he still didn't understand how easily the brothers were shrugging off what he had done.

"Hey, Fidds I need you to let me know you understand," Stan said, a large hand coming down on Fiddleford's thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze. 

The contact jolted Fiddleford back to the present.

"Y-yes, Stan. I understand," He murmured.

"Good, don't forget to count."

The cane made its impending whistle that Fiddleford had become intimately familiar with over the course of the night. The pain it caused when it connected seared from the bottom of his foot through his body. He let out a startled howl, and jerked hard against the ropes. 

Fiddleford had expected the pain to be similar to the cane striking his butt. But he hadn’t anticipated how much more intense the blow would be on the soft, nerve rich arches of his feet. Ford’s hands pushed down harder on his upper back, once again restraining him. Fiddleford was grateful for the contact because it grounded him, helping him grind out the expected number. 

After that the rest of the beating was a haze of pain. He managed to get each number out but was quickly reduced to tears again. Each hit was a searing, burning sensation, and he never seemed to get numb to the pain. On top of the physical pain, came an emotional one. He hadn’t realizes just how exposed he would feel. How vulnerable lying there and allowing someone, even Stan, to strike at an area normally well covered and untouched. 

When he screamed the final number, he felt a huge tension release in his body and he sagged on the desk. His feet and ass throbbed dully in tandem. He had little interest in moving from his prone position. It would be extremely uncomfortable to stand or sit for the next few hours at least. 

The twins worked together to clean things up. Ford untied the ropes, while Stan rubbed ointment onto Fiddleford's soles to help with the bruising. Finally they eased Fiddleford up and off the desk. 

"You did so well, buddy. I’m very proud," Stan said, as Fiddleford gingerly tugged his boxers back on. Stan tugged Fiddleford in for a hug. 

Fiddleford's feet throbbed as he stood on them, but his craving for Stan's warmth and comfort overrode the pain.

A hand gently touched Fiddleford's shoulder and he turned to see Ford offering him another glass of water and his blanket. 

He tried to snatch the blanket, but Ford quickly put the water in his hands instead. He sipped at the cup with a pout, which quickly went away when Ford draped the blanket around him when Stan stepped away. 

"Dinner should be ready," Stan said breaking the quiet moment. 

Fiddleford let out a heavy sigh as the three of them left the office. Despite how painful the last hour or so had been he was sad that it was over. Being upstairs and seeing these other parts of the brothers’ lives made him feel like he was part of the group. But he had also wanted things to go back to normal, which meant the brothers would go to dinner and he would go back to the basement. 

As they moved through more rooms of the house neither brother made a move to send him back to the elevator. So he continued to trail after them, blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Like a dog knowing it was going to be kicked, but looking for affection anyways. 

In the living room Stan finally turned towards him. With a sinking feeling that he knew what was coming Fiddleford stopped. He rocked on his feet for a moment, despite the throbbing pain this caused.

"Grab a pillow, or something to sit on. The chairs at the table are all wooden and this isn't supposed to be torture," Stan said, gesturing to the cushions on the arm chair and small sofa in front of the TV. 

Fiddleford stared at Stan in confusion. Why would he care how hard the chairs were? Wasn’t Stan going to send him back to the basement?

You're eating dinner with us," Stan said with a frown. "Unless you really want to go back downstairs. Didn't Ford tell you that this is your home too?"

Stan looked ready to hunt Ford down and give him a talking to about the oversight. He assumed telling Fidds had slipped his giant nerd of a brother's mind while they were working on some nerd project. 

Fiddleford felt embarrassed, with everything else that had happened Ford's earlier statements in the elevator had slipped his mind. He quickly related this to Stan, hoping to assuage the stormy look that had come over his face.

"Oh good, I wouldn't put it past you nerds to get so caught up in your projects that you didn’t get around to talking about it."

Fiddleford snagged a pillow and continued to follow Stan. He winced when their path took them onto the wood floor of the kitchen. He had to admit the throbbing from his feet was an excellent reminder about what running had bought him.

Ford was already waiting for them at the table. He sat at the head, and Stan quickly took the seat to his right. This left Fiddleford to put his cushion on the seat across from Stan. All three men tucked into the meal. It was quickly finished with minimal conversation. 

"Fidds would you please take the dishes to the sink?" Ford asked, using the tone he generally reserved for bossing Fiddleford around in the lab. He and Stan were both leaning back contentedly in their chairs watching to see what the taller man would do.

"Of course," Fiddleford said. He nearly sprang to his feet, eager to be seen as useful and glad to have a chance to get off his sore backside. He quickly collected the various dishes and took them to the sink. 

"I could wash these," Fiddleford offered. He was trying to come up with reasons why the twins would find him useful and not regret letting him stay. Also to prove that his punishment had taken.

Stan stood and walked the short distance to the sink.

"That would be awfully nice of you Fidds. But I've got them if you’re too sore," Stan said as he pulled the taller man into a hug. 

Fiddleford winced when the hug caused him to put more wait on his aching feet but he did his best not to show it. 

"No, that's alright. I'm fine and you cooked so you shouldn't have to clean too," Fiddleford said relaxing into Stan's grip. "You should take the night off or something."

"Hear that, Poindexter? The cook shouldn't have to also clean. How come you never follow that line of thinking?" Stan chuckled.

"I wash the dishes," Ford said indignantly from the table. A book had appeared from nowhere and he was already buried in it not even looking up for his reply.

“When was the last time you did a chore around this place?” Stan scoffed. He nuzzled the back of Fiddleford’s neck as he continued to muse. “You might have helped carry some of your more sensitive equipment downstairs after the house was built.”

“Stanley, that’s not true! I help with things all the time,” Ford replied with an indignant squawk, unable to let his brother’s slight go. “And I’ve invented all kinds of things to save time on pointless household chores.”

“Sometimes it’s easier to just fold the laundry, Ford, rather than spending a week to create a machine to do it for you,” Stan groused.

“Why don’t you fellas go watch some TV or something,” Fiddleford said tentatively. He was trying to keep the brother’s from degenerating into a sibling squabble or at least get them out of his way before they did.

“That’s a great idea, Fidds,” Stanley said brightly. “Come on, Poindexter, I wanna see if that show I was telling you about is on again.”

Stan pressed a quick kiss to Fiddleford’s neck and gave him a hurried thank you before grabbing Ford and dragging him into the living room before he could protest taking the night off from his research. 

“You should join us when you’re done,” Stan called over his shoulder as he left the kitchen.

Fiddleford sighed, reveling in the peace and quiet. As he filled the sink and sorted the dishes Fiddleford took a moment to appreciate how far things had come in only a few days. For the first time in ages he was left completely alone with no restraints. Something that used to be so common he didn't even take it for granted was suddenly a novel experience. The stinging pain from his feet and aching backside kept any thoughts of capitalizing on this leniency far from his mind. But this didn't stop his enjoyment of the privacy.

It didn't take him long to clean the handful of dishes they had dirtied. He had thought about drying them but he had no idea where things were kept in the cupboards. Instead he left them to dry on the side of the sink.

Grabbing his blanket from the chair, Fiddleford made his way into the living room. He loitered in the doorway not entirely sure what his place in this new situation was.

Ford was taking up most of a well-worn couch. He was sprawled across it with his book and papers that had also sprung from nowhere. Stan sat in an armchair next to the couch, eyes fixated on the TV. He occasionally grabbed at his brother’s foot that was tapping absentmindedly in the air. 

If it weren’t for Fiddleford’s tender backside he would have just taken a seat on the floor next to the armchair and couch. But even the thought of sitting on the hardwood floor with only his blanket made him shift uncomfortably. 

Fiddleford must not have been being as quiet as he had thought. His slight movements drew Stan’s attention. The younger twin gestured for Fiddleford to come into the room. He patted his lap indicating what Fiddleford should do about the lack of seating.

He sat quickly in Stan’s lap, trying to block the TV as little as possible. Fiddleford shifted trying to find a position that didn’t put pressure on his bruises or jab his elbows into Stan. One of Stan’s hand ran absentmindedly over Fiddleford’s body, causing him to shiver at the care. 

While he was getting settled, Ford also resituated. He sat up and switched sides so he was now leaning against the couch arm closest to Stan and Fiddleford. He seemed mildly miffed that Stan’s attentions had shifted from him to Fiddleford. It wasn’t long before Stan was scratching lightly through Ford’s hair while his other hand sat warmly on Fiddleford’s stomach. 

The TV was playing a period drama that seemed to capture all of Stan’s attention. Ford seemed to be completely engrossed in his reading but would occasionally comment on an inaccuracy or demand Stan scratch a little more to the left. The coziness of the moment had Fiddleford relaxed and well on his way to drifting off when a hand on his head startled him. 

Ford’s hand had dropped onto Fiddleford’s head, seemingly without the researcher’s knowledge. Ford had traded his foot tapping for playing with Fiddleford’s hair. Occasionally tugging or twisting a piece when he found a passage he particularly disagreed with. But mostly carding through it with gentle strokes that practically had Fiddleford purring with content. 

In that moment, despite the ache from Fiddleford’s abused flesh, he knew that he could get used to this. The comfortable whatever he had slipped into between the brothers. He would do or be whatever they wanted of him, as long as it guaranteed him more nights like this.


End file.
